


head tilt or wry neck

by nikeforova



Series: fire lord zuko; princess azula [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Character Study, Healing, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, aang makes a brief appearance in his dream to talk about airbending, azula makes the right choices, i'm so sorry azula, no please don't write the comics this is my emotional support sibling pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikeforova/pseuds/nikeforova
Summary: Azula leans forward and kicks the cover further down, hair tousled, and for a moment she is so terribly young--exactly how she used to look getting out of bed--and Zuko bites his lip to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it down.But her outline is sharp against the lamplight, and she is nineteen. Not young anymore; not that she ever was.Zuko doesn't have anything to say, not now, so he looks at the corner behind her head. It's bare, the pale blue rough around the edges—he did suggest she use the tape—and there's nothing there for him to focus on. Even if the edges don’t match where the walls meet, he simply presses his lips together—there in the other corner he can see individual brushstrokes, and he starts counting those instead.Or: glimpses of Azula and Zuko fixing their relationship by making all the choices they never got to, told in snippetsCW: animal death, slight gore in relation to it (it's mostly symbolic, but wanted to mention it just in case).
Relationships: Azula & Iroh (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: fire lord zuko; princess azula [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847761
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	head tilt or wry neck

**Author's Note:**

> Wry neck (or head tilt) are both conditions that can happen as a direct result of diseases for and trauma to rabbits.

I.

Azula leans forward and kicks the cover further down, hair tousled, and for a moment she is so terribly young—exactly how she used to look getting out of bed—and Zuko bites his lip to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it down.

But her outline is sharp against the lamplight, and she is nineteen. Not young anymore; not that she ever was.

All those years of silence cost them something—their hearts, maybe _(_ _it_ _was_ _easier to give up something so useless_ _back then_ _)_ —but they still have them, because they’re both stubborn, and maybe that’s what’s saved them from giving in and handing them over. But still, the silence chases after their debt, pressing up against both of them, demanding that they _pay up._ It’s nudging, crying _say something, say something._

Zuko doesn't have anything to say, not now, so he looks at the corner behind her head. It's bare, the pale blue rough around the edges—he _did_ suggest she use the tape—and there's nothing there for him to focus on. Even if the edges don’t match where the walls meet, he simply presses his lips together—there in the other corner he can see individual brushstrokes, and he starts counting those instead.

The bed creaks as Azula turns. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him like she wants to pick him apart, and Zuko lets her.

He can just picture himself: a carcass on the side of a road, the bones picked straight from rotting flesh. Azula reaching in and holding up his rib, asking

_Is this what I’m made of, then?_

Nothing goes to waste in this world. The skin and the bones are useful, and he will let her have them. It's not a kind picture, but it's not cruel, either, and that is more than both of them ever thought they would get out of this death.

  
  


II.

The next time he visits, the curtains hang slack against the afternoon sun.

He hesitates in front of them, and Azula narrows her eyes, eyes searching for some symbol of trustworthiness— _why should I let you,_ she seems to ask in return—and Zuko stays still.

He turns one shoulder back towards the bed. _Because I let you pick my skull out of my head_ _last time I visited_ isn’t something that you can say out loud or communicate with one shoulder. What he chooses to say, instead, is _I’ll sit back down if you’d like._

She nods once, stiff, and Zuko lets sunlight flood the room, the fabric warm. The chair is loud when he pulls it over the floor, and he flinches.

The gingkoak tree sways lazily; a small garden in the corner of the fields has finally grown bushy, leaves tangled as they reach for the sunlight.

There’s a marmotrabbit eating grass behind the overgrown grass behind what Zuko guesses to be lavender. It looks _leftrightleft_ as it chews, rocking back and forth to shift weight in an eternal preparation of flight.

When Azula breaks the silence, her voice is rough. “Don’t rabbits sometimes get so nervous they die?”

They do, sometimes. Once, when he was small, they watched one run itself to death. He knows now that when a small animal is hit hard enough, it can’t be healed anymore. The animal dies, or runs in circles because of the neurological damage, unable to get anywhere. He remembers Azula telling him to _come, Zuko,_ and there it was, following the same invisible thread over and over again on a summer afternoon.

It was stumbling and panicked, but it was only half blind—must’ve been, at least, because it ran faster and faster and then it fell suddenly to the floor, and Zuko knew that it wasn’t a rabbit anymore, at least not one that could run. If it wasn’t dead for real yet, he thought, a rabbit that couldn’t run would be soon anyways.

When Azula poked it with a stick, it didn’t move, its eyes fixed blankly on something that didn’t exist at all, and Zuko started to cry.

Zuko wishes she hadn’t said anything at all. He wonders what she’s seeing.

He hopes it isn’t him.

Maybe, Zuko thinks to himself, still watching the rabbit, if I remember these things hard enough, I will not become bad. I will think of the map of my hands, and my eye, and I will think that with my heart, I could not possibly bring myself to choose something that is written all over me.

Maybe it's like muscle memory. If he practices enough times, thinking about what decision he will make: then when it matters, he can be sure that he will run, and lean into the curve fast enough.

He might even miss the threat that's coming (that is: _this time_ ).

Azula watches him on the way out. It might even be gentle (that is: _could be_ ).

III.

A week later, Zuko dreams of Azula putting him back together.

She tucks his nerves back next to corded muscle and soft fat, and there’s blood on her hands. It doesn’t feel like his.

 _I was there when you were made,_ she says, and her face is unreadable. _Something from nothing, Zuko. It’s a miracle, really,_ she laughs, shaking her head.

And then there’s lightning in the distance, and his sister’s face closes. Whatever he got to see on her face is shuttered away now, buried farther down than he can reach for, and he’s kicking up dirt and scrambling and running.

He awakes with a heart running just as fast in his chest, and it’s dark and warm on his skin like only Caldera has ever felt. There’s a warm body next to him— _Sokka,_ his mind tells him helpfully, _he’s safe_ —but his hands still shake as he reaches for the water glass next to him.

(As he falls asleep, he distantly remembers Aang explaining to him how he fights: _Some people call it cowardice. Some people call it smart ._

_We—I mean, the monks—called it survival. For us, at least, running is part of the fight. )_

IV.

Azula keeps on trying to summon flames to her hand—when you’re conditioned to be a weapon, it hurts to have that taken away, too.

She’s seen ceremonial swords before, and thinks they’re stupid. She’s nothing without firebending (or maybe more than nothing—a wound or a black hole or a grave).

But her brother looks at her anyways; week after week he shows up and opens the curtains fully. She’s gotten used to making sure they’re closed at least halfway before he comes, just to make sure he’ll still open them.

Maybe she isn’t nothing, but that thought is _much_ too big. Did Uncle Iroh still look Zuko in the eyes when he lost his flames? Did anybody?

Why does she feel like screaming?

V.

It’s still in the room, and the tree outside talks for both of them. The orange leaves whisper, but at least they’re not saying words anymore.

Azula is fidgety today. She’s moving so much more than usual, and her fingers _tap tap_ tap and fingers shake. Her leg is wandering off, trying to cross the floor above which it’s dangling.

 _Nervous nervous nervous_ is all Zuko can feel, and it’s definitely coming from him.

He shrugs internally. Much better than the shame he felt physically ill with for hours on end—it’s like it followed him out the door after he visited. He hated it for making him feel nauseous, and reminding him of Uncle Iroh and the smell of seawater. All that shame and nowhere to put it—where does one put something so wild? Zuko never figured out how to tame it. It’s something he knows well: you scream at it until one day it just—jumps out of your chest, ripping its way out, and then it bounds into the woods. You _could_ get mauled, if you’re not careful, but at least it’s not terrorizing you anymore.

She opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it shut just as quickly.

Zuko waits.

(Waiting and running are just two sides of the same coin that he keeps on flipping.)

“It’s awfully hot and I hate it. It’s rather disappointing; messes up my hair all ugly. I’m almost starting to feel as if I’m you.”

Neither of them say anything about the crown.

Azula never says what she means—she’s too brittle for that.

“Would you like me to brush it for you?”

(The coin lands on waiting again.)

Azula hesitates, and Zuko— _small mercies, small mercies—_ feels the soft leather on his fingertips as he moves the sheath off his waist. It ends up on her desk, and those overblown pupils follow it down.

“Yes.”

These are what Zuko will remember: Padding footsteps, folded knees, head down.

Trust may as well be an act of prayer.

He reaches— _slow hands, slow hands—_ for the nape of her neck, lets his hands work something honest as he gently braids her hair. Has anybody done this for her with care before?

Why are his hands shaking?

VI.

He wonders whether Azula remembers the rabbit.

Remembering the rabbit doesn't do much for anybody, but somebody needs to catalog it.

(It has to matter, or else nothing else that he ever has experienced matters.)

( _Did you see me then, when I cried?_ _)_ He cried like the world was ending.

and

_(I cry the same way for you.)_

  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings about azula. also sorry for bashing you over the head with the rabbit so many times
> 
> thank you for reading! :) you can find me on twitter @sanriobabee


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